Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2017  Vol. 16 No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Coat The Skillet

Imagine each frog murdered
In the garden
Each frog leg chopped off with a cleaver or two.

Frog legs are usually green
But some gardener has tossed these maroon-toned
Amputated thighs into a red netted bag and knotted it in
An incandescent finish.

Sitting still in the refrigerator
The skins of the frogs’ legs
Give the appearance of flaky onion skins
Their insides withering, shriveled.
Senescing despicably.

60 frog legs in their sepulchral bag.
I pull them out
Unknot the knot
As I yank out the senescent legs from
The flaky empyrean-colored panty hose
Clinging tightly to their wilted muscular
Thighs and chop each
End of their useless
Flesh off—I think:
These legs won’t hop or leap
Insomnolently from one river
Bed of grass to another. They will
Hop right into my skillet.

Their legs, diced, will sleep
In marinated red sauce and boiled pork
Broth and pork bones
Like Etruscan lovers
After a nuptial quarrel.

The soul of these shallot frog legs
Coats the skillet
With a deliberate sweetness.
Only World War II
Dressed in nude could
Appreciate the elite status
Of their amputation.  

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